


Rhythm of Life

by tamedshrew



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamedshrew/pseuds/tamedshrew
Summary: Beth reflects on the man in her arms.





	Rhythm of Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post so please be gentle!
> 
> Even though no names are mentioned, the characters are Daryl and Beth. It just didn’t fit in my mind to use names anywhere.

Rhythmically, I watch his chest rise and fall. Fall and rise. Rise and fall. I feel a closeness to him that I can not find words to express. Abstractly, I think about how his body seems mechanical and void of the capacity of emotion. 

I sigh, and he shifts in my arms. His eyes twitch, and I wonder if I ever enter into his dreams anymore. I pull him closer to me. I inhale deeply and find the sweet smell of him—his sweat, his breath, and the smell of the sex that we most recently had. I stroke the back of his head and wonder at how it feels to the skin on my hands. I invite him closer into my chest with a gentle but persuasive pull. His head follows obediently, even if his mind does not.

I close my eyes and force any unwelcome thoughts out of my mind. I want to focus on how I feel at this exact moment. I don’t want to waste any time thinking of what might be and miss what is actually happening. I have already wasted too much of my life thinking about what could happen instead of what is happening.

Too much of my adult time has been spent not living my life. Upright Daughter Proper of the American South. But then him. He left me defenseless and in awe. 

He totally unseated me. But wait. That’s not entirely true. I have always tended to be slightly unseated, restless, filled with an unnamed longing. Always looking for the next achievement, rarely giving myself any time to celebrate the milestone I had reached. As an aside, he did convince me to celebrate one moment—my graduation from college. However, as a person with no idea how much is too much, it ended badly with two bouncers clearing the women’s bathroom to carry me to his waiting arms. He spent the rest of the night washing my clothes and my boots, petting me, holding me, cleaning me up. He consumes my every memory. I do not have memories outside of his existence. 

The good memories usually outweigh the bad except at night. On the nights when I find myself watching him as he sleeps, I have only thoughts of someone who is being pulled ever so gently by an invisible string toward impending disaster. It is as if I am only an observer in my life, watching a movie, screaming “No!” as the heroine falls. Only, I can’t scream. I can only watch as tears stream down my face. 

I pull him closer to me. I feel his breath on my breasts, and, again, I cup his head with my hand. This is the measure I will use for the rest of my life to size up a man. I will never again be able to let my eyes fall carelessly around a room without thinking of how this or that head would fit into my hands.

For long intervals, I find myself unable to read, unable to write. Simply incapable of tasks that I once loved. Unable to listen to music, I know every talk show schedule without a 300 mile radius of my home. Unable—not incapable, but unwilling. What’s the risk? What if… what if… what if I write/read/hear emotion like I am feeling inside? That will somehow lead a truthfulness to it that I simply can not bear.


End file.
